Pub Crawl
by kangeiko
Summary: Giles and Ethan on a pub crawl during the Season 4/5 hiatus. Giles / Ethan.


PUB CRAWL

Revised: 13/05/03

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, Joss does.

SUMMARY: Giles and Ethan on a pub crawl during the Season 4/5 hiatus. Darkfic. Didn't mean it to be, but hey.

RATING: R

PAIRING: Giles/Ethan. Was as surprised as you.

There's a pub in London, the locals say, that still serves pints at nineteenth century prices. Find it and drink like a king.

Ethan doesn't believe a word of it. Twenty - and more - years of pub crawls every weekend and no luck. He'd covered all of west London and most of the south side. Of course, new pubs opened every weekend, but still. A fella would find the place eventually.

Unless, of course, there was a glamour spell over it.

Silly to dwell on it. Silly to even think about it after all this long. But, see, it had been this long. Getting away from those idiot commandos had taken him the better part of a year, and here he was in the deep heat of August, shirt plastered to his back, with nothing to do. More importantly, noone to do, which made things all the more boring. And wandering down Whitechapel Road would get him mugged, at best. Killed, mugged and raped at worst. Ethan thought about that for a moment. Given the choice, he'd prefer things to take precisely that sequence. The raping could be done with his blessing after he was well and truly dead.

I must be bored.

Oh, he was so bored. Petticoat Lane Market had closed a couple of hours before, and now there was nothing to do but get back on the Tube again and go find somewhere fun to hang out.

Except that he had a few hours to kill and now he was here. Looking for the pub. Looking for the pub.

Looking for something to do. Something that reminds him of what was before.

The better part of a year. Eight, nine months, something like that. He doesn't even remember anymore. Out in the middle of the sodding desert and how the fuck do you tell the time there? Days blend into each other. Not that it's much better here. No. Here, you had people, at least. Gloriously half-naked people, wandering around, arms full of goodies. It was sale time; neon signs plastered as a backdrop for them over every wall and surface. Shopping at the market, shopping at Covent Garden, hanging out at the magic shops, smiling at the little Wiccan girls with toy broomsticks and the oh so indulging parents. He'd make little balls of fire in his hands to amuse them, watch and see which ones got closer. Gave them small protection spells in tacky velvet pouches if their parents weren't watching and their eyes sparkled just so. Little girls, playing at witches.

Little demons, even. That power, in some of them. He'd smirked to himself and given them fun spells, silly spells, spells to make things explode. Made-up sweets that disappeared in the pocket if they didn't eat them right away, toy snakes that turned real. All those fun things in fun shops that weren't really real and so didn't matter. Parents took their darlings home and who was he to tell them otherwise. Watch the darlings. Watch the little helpless ones smile.

Fun. Fun oh fun. Even that fades. Even that gets boring. Even that seems somehow tacky after a while. "Don't talk to scary old men, Bethany," and when had he become a scary old man? All those pretty little children he'd loved corrupting in plush, sweet, pretty Covent Garden, all those lovely young ladies he'd talked to on the steps of the Plaza, watching the street performers and making the acrobats fall. That had been fun. When had that stopped being fun?

He was dialling before he even knew whose number he was calling. The retreat into a nameless faceless boring pub had earned him a nasty look from the lady of the pub – all clumsily bleached blonde hair, sagging skin and thick gold rings on every finger - and he was dialling overseas.

"Hello?"

"Hey." And silence. Be a tosser or not?

"Ethan?" True puzzlement on the other side of the line, and Ethan couldn't remember if he'd drank anything today or not. The pubs wouldn't serve alcohol this early; tossed him out on his ear before midday, in fact, told him to come in for a pub lunch after one o'clock. He couldn't find the time anywhere and anyway, it just seemed like too much effort.

"Hello Ripper. How's tricks?"

"What are you doing calling?"

God, he could almost seem him push those glasses back on the bridge of his nose. And was he paying for these long meaningful silences?

"I'm bored. I'm drunk. I'm not drunk enough. Fancy a pub crawl?"

"Not really. What are you doing calling me, you shit? You tried to have me killed."

He shrugged, forgetting Giles couldn't see him. "Tried, failed. What's new? Come drink with me. I promise I won't drug you again." He smirked. "If you're good, you can drug me."

"Oh, will my heart stand the thought. Just how drunk are you?"

"Oh, you know." He waved a hand and committed the ultimate sin of spillage.

It suddenly seemed funny.

"So I'm wandering down Whitechapel Road, and did you know the Ten Bells shut down?"

"Really?"

Brief flicker of interest. He felt the inescapable urge to fan it, to keep it alight, to use it as warmth. "Yeah. That tacky little plaque's gone, too. You'd think it was just another pub."

"It was just another pub, Ethan."

"Naaah. It was a pub. It was his pub, Ripper. Or, you know. Yours."

"Jesus, Ethan." He could hear the sighing and scrape of a chair being dragged closer to the telephone, the settling of somebody on it. "How drunk are you?"

"How many times are you gonna ask that? I tell you Jack's pub's been closed down and you wanna know about how pissed I am?"

"I honestly couldn't give a toss about Jack's fucking pub. It served shite pints anyway." Amazing how filthy he could sound with that clipped accent, struggling with baser, unfamiliar words. A proper little Lord's son, young Mr Giles, off gallivanting about in the East End. Used to. Used to.

Ethan felt something tighten in his throat. He took another gulp of his drink.

"Ethan –" A sigh. "What on earth is all this about?"

"I... just..." and he couldn't remember. So, fuck him. "Fuck you," he decided.

There was an audible snap over the line; he guessed that the glasses had come off. "And screw you too, you tosser. Why are you calling me? After what you did?"

Suddenly, irrationally angry. "What I did? I failed, didn't I? I failed. And you - you didn't! You let them take me away!"

"My job, Ethan. You were the villain there."

"Yeah. Thanks ever so."

More silences on both ends, while Ethan stared at the beer mat in front of him. Three in the afternoon and already things were swaying.

"So, how was life in Area 51?"

"Wouldn't know. Didn't see much of it except the cells and the desert."

"How was the desert?"

"Dusty."

"Right." Silence, while Ethan counted. Okay. "And where are you staying?"

"St Paul's."

"The cathedral?"

"No, the fucking steps in front of it. Sometimes. Not doing real well with money, okay?"

"But you can get drunk in every pub in the East End."

"Bloke's gotta have priorities. 'Sides, get enough through bad mojo to drink. Not enough to pay London room rates."

Fair enough. Fine. Whatever.

"I'm gonna be there in a week, okay? Friday night, meet me in front of the Ten Bells. We'll do a crawl."

"The Bells are closed, Ripper."

Giles laughed, and suddenly everything was all right again. "They won't be for long."

Click.

So many songs about this place. So many songs, you could make a book about them. In fact, he was sure people had. Many, many books. Books on the songs, on the people, on the buildings, on the pubs, on the pubs in the buildings, on the building of the pubs... you could find a book about every aspect of London if you set your mind to it. Funnily enough, Ethan had never really set his mind to something like that.

He lit a fag and waited. Friday night in front of a dead pub. R.I.P. Ten Bells. You served your customers well - you were cheap and trashy.

Flash

Tourists.

He shook his head. This was still Jack's town. Jack's street. Jack's pub. Even though the sign didn't say it anymore.

"Hey, you!" Young kid, no more than fifteen. "What's with the tweed, old man? Punk's back!"

He laughed and shed his jacket. Underneath, Johnny glared under a mass of safety pins from his tattered t-shirt. "Never left, whelp. Have some respect for your fucking elders."

The kid laughed back. "Respect you right into the grave, old man."

Not so old, he thought, taking a puff. Not so old, still. Life in the old guy yet, yeah? Maybe. Maybe.

Eight o'clock, still too early. Maybe. Too early anywhere else - too early in little sleepy villages, in tired little towns. Too late here to get a good start in any area. Come on, Ripper, he thought. Come on.

"Oy. Shift." Three men, carrying crates. One walking in front with stacks of keys and a baleful look. "Are you the idiot?"

"What the fuck?"

"Nuthin'. Shift." And he opened the doors.

Inside, dust lived.

It covered everything. Ethan had no idea when the pub had shut, but when the owners had moved out, the dust had moved in. And it had thrown a party and forgotten to leave.

"Jesus. This place is a state."

Key-guy threw him a look. "Ain't it just. Mop should be in a closet."

He blinked. "I ain't mopping your fucking floor for you."

Key-guy shrugged. "Pull your own fucking pints then."

No arguing with that. Two hours later the place looked presentable. There was even beer being served.

The only question remained - how? And, maybe, why the fuck?

"Hello, Ethan." Warm arm thrown around his shoulder, nuzzling of warm skin, stubble scratching stubble. "Like my present?"

He growled and yanked away, nearly spilling his pint. "Tosser. You made me mop."

"Sorry I missed it." Giles sat next to him at the bar, collar undone, hair ruffled, glasses missing. "My flight got screwed."

"Was it fun?" Don't even look up.

"Not really. No one to get screwed during it by, see."

Oh, he was a Watcher all right. The father figure. The fucking patriarch of those little kids' world. And he was grinning that same smile, that same goddamn smirk that led to so many memories in the little dark alley behind this pub. Ripper's alley. Ripper's pub.

Speaking of which - "what's with the pub?"

The smile dimmed. "Enough about it, all ready. It's here for the night. Enjoy it, okay?"

"I thought we were crawling."

"We are." And he was leaning in too close again, oh and he could smell the sweat on him, the tiredness, the jet-lagged need for sex, the anger at being bound in a seat for too many fucking hours. "The night's still young, right?"

And it was. "I wanna crawl." He hated himself for the petulancy of that. Jesus, if he wasn't so fucking tired...

A hard, hot hand gripped the back of his neck tightly, rubbing that spot just below the skull. Ethan shivered in response.

Giles was in his face now, and somehow the librarian he'd despised in Sunnyhell was gone. Back was that smirk, that lick at half-open lips. "I said we'll crawl. Now drink before I fucking drown you in it."

He drank.

Three o'clock in London town, London town, London town...

Wasn't that a song? His brain was fuzzy.

Pubs in England closed at 11, but a crawl could last all night if you knew what you were doing. And these two knew what they were doing.

"And it fucking hurt, see, so I punched the bugger."

"An' then wha'?"

Consonants were giving them trouble.

Ethan blinked. "He punched me back and threw me in a cell."

"Oh." Giles contemplated his pint for another moment. "Did it hurt?"

"Yes it fucking hurt!"

"Oh."

Sex in a back alley, and suddenly he's home. Suddenly things are as they always used to be. It smells of trash and of piss and of sex; Soho screams life mere metres away with illegally-imported little girl slaves, chained for the pleasure of old men and oh! He doesn't care anymore, he really doesn't because he's finally home, he's being smothered in layers of beer and dust and raw power, stubble scraping on raw flesh.

Hands rip at his clothing and the wall is suddenly cold against his cheek. Giles's face is all shadows and angles; a wicked flash of teeth and a fumble of clothing.

Wait -- wait -- wait --

"Oh, fuck, Ripper, fucking wait --" And he can't say it but his hands still know what to say, how to show what he means, and Giles stops suddenly, puzzled.

"Ethan, fuck's sake," and was he panting? "You never cared about a fucking condom before, why now?" And, laughingly, "I'm fucking clean, okay?"

No answer then, just a desperate, angry look, and Giles freezes. Gives in.

"Jesus." Finds one, finally, in a trouser pocket; rips it open. Quick slick hands, and it's on and suddenly there's too much to think about, too much happening.

Someone screamed silently, and quiet fell.

Too quick. Too quick. But what did either of them expect?

Giles pulled away from him with a rough kiss on the nape of his neck to fall back and sit on the cold ground, trousers still around his ankles, condom still on his softening cock. He grabbed it and peeled it off, tying it and throwing it far away.

Ethan slid down wordlessly, pulling his clothes to rights. Too good. It had been too good, and now the payment for it.

"Ethan?"

Oh, don't even pretend to not know. To be innocent. They were never innocent. Never.

Giles stared at him. "Jesus. Just tell me."

And he did.

There had been an illness at the base. One of the demons had done something - somehow. People were dying right and left, but not Ethan. Because the 'illness' was a spell, and one thing Ethan knew how to protect himself from was a spell. And he did.

And his keepers noticed.

"They thought I was immune," he said miserably. He suddenly needed a whole lot more alcohol. "Or knew how to heal. Something."

But Giles knew that he didn't. That he wasn't. But if they didn't know --

And Ethan rolled up his sleeve. The puncture wounds had been so frequent they had left an angry scar on the inside of his elbow. The blue of his veins was virulent against the pale skin.

Giles reached out a tentative hand and touched the scar. Ethan swallowed. "They wanted to know exactly what I could be immune to."

"Did they find out?"

He laughed. "Yeah: not a great fucking deal." He stood abruptly. He needed to leave now. In fact, he never really should have been there. There were some things Ripper and him were square on, and this was one of them. He hadn't lied to him, but almost... almost. Ripper hadn't asked and Ethan hadn't offered. So - almost. Almost.

Strong hands on his forearm, stopping him from leaving. Suddenly Giles pressed against his back, and somehow the bastard had managed to get clothed again. "Don't leave. Just tell me."

"I fucking did, what, you want a diagram of what your pet soldiers did to me?! You want a list of it, is that it, Ripper?"

"Not mine. Never mine." He paused. The question of three little letters surfaced on his face but Ethan wouldn't even look at him, so he could hardly ask. Just wonder. And hate. The hold on Ethan's arm became caressing. "Do you want me to guess?"

"No." And Ethan pulled away; tried to get his breathing under control. He could do this. He could he could he could. "I want you to leave. Thanks for the ' crawl."

Giles was silent until he was almost out of earshot. "Ethan?"

He paused. Hated himself for it, but he paused. "Yeah?"

"I got a holiday coming." Hesitation. "Next Friday okay?"

Nothing else to say, was there? "Yeah."

Life was life. It was shitty, and it went on. At least for a while. In the meantime, there were pubs, and there were crawls, and there were all those things in between. Ethan lit a fag and inhaled deeply. There was still that pub to find. The pub. A lifetime's work.

fin


End file.
